


Drabble. (Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres.)

by dollylux



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:10:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux





	Drabble. (Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres.)

sergio realized the huge differences between their clubs, between fernando's liverpool and his madrid. he realized the heart and fight that liverpool had, the tragedies, the history that had captured his fernando's heart and drawn him in. it was all so perfectly fernando. sergio wasn't drawn to tragedies. he was drawn to importance, to those epic stories that became legend. that awe was what led him to real madrid, the flash, the glamour, the promise of something so much bigger than he could ever be by himself or with any other team, so he figured. there was no vast or emotional connection to real madrid, it was a name, a club, a euro sign. he hadn't expected to fall in love with his team no matter who owned it, who ran it, who played for it. he never expected to be so inexplicably drawn in, hadn't expected to lay so much of himself down on the line each time he walked out onto that pitch, out onto that battlefield he called home. the bernabéu was his sanctuary when they were playing well, when they were shining like stars and fighting like lions. it was a hell, a prison when they were losing, when whistles rained down on them like bullets, when nothing he could do in his physical body could change the inevitable outcome of what was happening to him, when prayers didn't suffice, when they fell on deaf ears.

fernando seemed to have a loyalty to to his fans, to the supporters who treated him like their child, who seemed to want to bring him hot cocoa and a blanket when it was especially cold (poor dear, bless him, probably freezing, not used to such weather in spain, is he?). they serenaded him with their song for him, comforted him with it and inspired him. and he gave it all back to them, sliding to his knees across the slick grass the moment he scored a goal, on his knees for them in honest, humble thanks, in such sweet gratitude for their love. it was simple, it was profound. it was so perfectly fernando.

sergio's loyalty lay more with his team than with the fans, particularly. they could turn on their blancos so quickly, so quick to criticize, to scream at, to leave when they were losing and there seemed to be no redemption, no hope. sergio always fought for his team, for the boys around him in matching shirts, fought to erase the pain and desperation from their faces, fought to make sure they would be able to sleep that night, to try and help their dreams come true. they were his family, as surely as any back in sevilla, no matter who came and went, when they arrived and settled in, they belonged to him and he to them. sergio's dedication was absolute, defiant and seemingly ignorant to the corruption that ran rampant in the offices of the men in charge, blind to the greed that ran his club, that drove them to sign this or that player. those men weren't on his pitch, weren't in his locker room. they weren't part of the family. they just provided the home.


End file.
